Floss
by one four two nine seven eight
Summary: Ron tries to wipe away the words from Draco's mouth. Dark, probably OOC, and masochistic.


*Relishes in the cathartic nature of this piece* Ooh, I want to take a looong bubble bath after this. For the record, this came to me while I was brushing my teeth. I had thought the idea would slip away, but apparently it lasted long enough to record and make sense of . . . 

Follows, obviously, Ron; Malfoy merely hurt him, the big asshole. Yeah, I'm usually a huge Draco fan, but today, let's just pretend he's not our favorite little blond, okay?

***

He tore through the common room, panting, sweating, and unashamed. People stopped their conversations and assignments and reading to watch him run into chairs and end tables in his haste to reach the dormitory. He blindly stumbled past the beds and trunks, past the owls and cat and mice, past the clothes, folded neat and clean on their chairs, past his gawking roommates. He slammed into the bathroom, locking the doors and sliding to the cold, unfeeling ground. Tears coursed freely down course, freckled cheeks; his lungs burned, gasped for air.

Before his sobs had ended he was again on his feet, fumbling madly for the edge of the sink. He gazed into the mirror, his vision blurred and eyes blotched and red. He was reliving the moment, that horrible, awful moment, the moment when his world came crashing down. 

Words echoed through his mind, through his aching muscles and grating lungs, past his numbed heart and empty thoughts.

__

. . . no boyfriend, either . . .

He scrambled to cleanse himself of the pain, of the sorrow, woe, and grief. He wanted to put a stop to it all without ending his life. He wanted to mend this broken emptiness within him; he wanted to make things right again at any cost. But he was poor in more than simple money, forced to pay the price, and his wide hands closed around a small box of waxy floss.

The taste, the horrible remnant taste, echoed through his mouth, over his tongue, between his teeth. He had to get rid of it, had to make it stop.

__

. . . I have no girlfriend . . . no boyfriend, either . . . 

The clean string of floss broke the circulation in his fingers, made his flesh as numb as his mind. Awkwardly, he dug through his aching, itching gums, scraping teeth and tongue in the process; he was trying to amend this awful wrong against his soul. This pain throbbing in his heart, at his temples, would stop when his very body cried out for mercy. He sawed at his gums with the floss until the string, once pure and white and holy, hung limp and bloody from his fingers, and he tossed it away.

He grappled with the box again, taking out another length of smooth, white thread, repeating the offensive action against his flesh and blood. He sank to the floor before he was finished, the tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, breath ragged and uneven. 

The floss ran out before his endurance did, though the previous strands were torn and bloody from his masochism, and he reached for his toothbrush and paste. Then, kneeling over the sink, he continued his ritual, sending the harsh bristles tearing through his gums, over his teeth, scratching at his flesh.

His mouth frothed and foamed, the minty blue of the paste slowly streaming orange and red from his own blood from cuts and sores; his saliva was hot and thick and choking as his mixed with the toothpaste and blood. He was drowning in his cleaning, his solution to his problems, and he felt his resolve growing stronger and stronger as more time passed.

__

. . . No girlfriend . . . What the hell are you talking about? . . . I have no boyfriend, either . . . 

His weary limbs grew tired of supporting his lanky frame and aching arms; the toothbrush slipped from his fingers and clattered into the sink. Before he slid, once more, to the cold and sterile ground, he filled the glass on the marble countertop with cold water and took a long drink.

The water stung the self-inflicted wounds in his mouth. He quaffed the liquid a second time; the fiery cold of it burned more than the clean air in his lungs had after tearing up to the tower. Upon hitting his stomach, the water caused him to cramp, his muscles and organs screaming in pain. The water continued to rain down on his innards, breaking him from the inside out.

. . . I'm not looking for a relationship like that . . . no boyfriend, either . . . What the hell are you talking about? _. . . I don't have a girlfriend . . . _

He pressed his ear to the door. The dormitory was silent save for the occasional twitter and scuffle of sparrows on the windowsill, the clicking of talons on the rafters. He opened the door a crack; the room was, indeed, empty, and he crept out and down the staircase of weathered and spiraling stone. 

His mouth ached. His lungs ached. His limbs ached. His heart ached.

The common room was empty -- it must have been meal time -- he stole down the hall in silence after disturbing the fat lady's napping. She called after him, but he wasn't listening. He was sliding through shadows like a Slytherin, past paintings as though he wore a cloak of invisibility on his shoulders. 

There was a noise from the Great Hall. Supper was done; they would be coming soon. Great swarms of students and teachers would come barreling from the doors, barricade the staircases and classroom doors and corridors. He pressed on, drawing closer and closer to the Hall without passing directly in front of it.

__

. . . I've been hurt a lot in my lifetime, but that hasn't stopped me . . . no girlfriend . . . no boyfriend, either . . . a relationship like that . . . What the hell . . . ?

He had been burned, scarred, hurt; he was determined to have someone else feel the same sense of utter desperation that he felt, that he was feeling now. The first person to come through past -- the first girl -- boy -- whomever he saw would become his prey.

A girl flounced past. Hermione. He grimaced, pressed against the cool, clammy wall of the corridor. She didn't notice him, no one noticed him. He stole closer to the hall.

The next to pass his way, no matter of age, gender, sexuality. They would soon learn as well as he that nothing mattered in the game of hearts.

__

. . . a relationship like that . . . what the hell . . . ? . . . that hasn't stopped me . . . no boyfriend, either . . . It's so much more than that . . . 

The rustle of robes, and he checked to make sure it wasn't a professor before latching a surprisingly calm hand onto their robes. He pinned them to the wall, pressed himself to them, ignored their protesting groans and muffles objections. A second-year, thinking he would hurt her. She squirmed against his strong grip on her robes. 

He felt her up. His hand was in her robes, testing, feeling; his breath was shaking against her neck, on her skin. She had given up complaint, now, her hand in his hair; she was trying to be closer, to find her way into his robes, too. . . . She thought that she was special, that she had been chosen specially, that he wanted her because of who she was and not because she _was. _

__

. . . It was an easy feel . . . nothing that I'm proud of . . . that hasn't stopped me . . . it's so much more than that . . . 

He tore himself away, panting, eyes wide with realization at what he was doing. He was no better than he who had done these things to him. He was worse by repeating the offense. He steeled himself away, his eyes torn from the disheveled, teary-eyed, eager girl at the wall, and pushed himself away from her. 

His legs, heart, mind pumped as he raced through empty corridors, past the fat lady's portrait and Great Hall, past the changing staircases and gawking portraits, past the gossiping ghosts and puzzled suits of armor; his body screamed for him to stop, but he was numb to its request. 

Very suddenly the familiar corridors had melted away from him; he was standing in a cold, black sky, high above his usual territory. He had stumbled onto one of the higher towers, overlooking the Quidditch field and forests and greenhouses and gardens. He was being whipped by the winds and chased by pelting raindrops, he was being scarred by menacing clouds and demon gales, he was being haunted by looming shadows from the ground.

__

. . . I have no boyfriend, either . . . nothing that I'm proud of . . . so much more . . . 

His breaths were ripping his lungs, a stitch in his side, he was about to burst into ribbons. He needed water, food, the flesh of the blond pressed against his own. He needed the comfort of having things figured out, the comfort of knowing what came next. He needed to know that his tears would end someday, that everything would be all right, and that he would eventually find his true home.

Most of all, however, he needed these slings and arrows which pierced his heart to come from someone he knew he couldn't trust, but wished for all the world that he could trust the one who had hurt him.


End file.
